


Lonely Hands

by kashiichan



Series: Hunter's Heart, Hunter's Mouth [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Asexuality Spectrum, Aziraphale is gayer than etc, Crowley is demisexual, Demisexuality, Enthusiastic Consent, Hand Kisses, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Inspired by Poetry, M/M, Other, Romance, feelings are hard, having a physical sex has become virtually effortless by now, love is not an escalator, no beta we die like men, they've both been on Earth too long
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-06-29 09:28:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19827280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kashiichan/pseuds/kashiichan
Summary: "Every thing must have a beginning, and that beginning must be linked to something that went before." — Mary ShelleyCrowley asks Aziraphale about the book he's reading. He isn't prepared for what it makes him feel.





	Lonely Hands

It's two o'clock on a Tuesday afternoon, and the bookshop is quiet; Aziraphale is having one of those "the shop is technically open but whoops, I forgot to unlock the door" days. Humans are deterred pretty easily by door locks; they fuss for a while, but they always go away eventually.

With the threat of human theatrics removed, Crowley's taken his sunglasses off and hooked them into the vee of his shirt; after beating back Armageddon with someone, trying to hide your eyes from them—especially when they actually seem to _like_ them—feels a bit silly.

Having the bookshop open to him like this is something he never appreciated until he nearly lost it. Knowing there's a place where he doesn't have to hide what or who he is, that Aziraphale _wants_ him here, is much more reassuring than he'd thought it would be.

He's been fiddling with his phone for an hour while the angel reads, his feet in Crowley's lap; he's getting bored, but doesn't want to move. The couch is so comfortable that he can almost forget how hideous it is, and he's more relaxed than he's been in weeks.

"What are you reading?" Crowley asks.

"Poetry," Aziraphale answers vaguely.

Crowley waits for more information, and doesn't get it. "What kind of poetry?" he eventually asks.

Instead of answering the question, Aziraphale starts reading it to him:

_"Sunlight pouring across your skin,_[1]  
_your shadow flat on the wall._  
_The dawn was breaking the bones of your heart like twigs."_

His voice is warm, pitched low; it practically caresses the syllables as they leave his lips. Crowley notices his heart rate pick up, just a little, and attempts to set it back to its normal pace. It ignores him, which is quite strange; he's always been in complete control of his body before.

Aziraphale continues, oblivious to Crowley's confusion:

_"You had not expected this,_  
_the bedroom gone white,_  
_the astronomical light_  
_pummeling you in a stream of fists._  
_You raised your hand to your face as if to hide it,_  
_the pink fingers gone gold as the light_  
_streamed straight to the bone,_  
_as if you were the small room closed in glass_  
_with every speck of dust illuminated._  
_The light is no mystery,_  
_the mystery is that there is something to keep the light_  
_from passing through."_

When Aziraphale finally looks up at him, waiting for a reaction, the demon says: "All those words just to say 'you woke up and the sun was in your eyes'?"

"I think it's beautiful," Aziraphale says, his voice soft. "Humans are so creative; they've done really well since Babylon."[2]

Crowley rolls his eyes at him; in response, Aziraphale nudges at his ribs with the toes of one foot. It devolves into a kind of gentle wrestling, each trying to pin the other to the couch without falling off. The angel eventually loses and goes right back to reading his book, pinned on his stomach underneath Crowley's chest. He feels a bit strange about it at first—surely he should move?—but the angel doesn't seem to mind at all. He's soft and warm and very comfortable; despite his vague concerns, Crowley eventually falls asleep.

*****

On Wednesday, Crowley is sprawled out on the couch next to the angel, fiddling with his phone as per usual. The record player in the corner is quietly working through a classical album[3]; Crowley doesn't recognise it, so it's probably a compilation of some kind.

Aziraphale usually goes through words and books like a toddler goes through crayons and paper: loudly, and with great enthusiasm. Even when he's silent, lost in a page, Crowley can practically hear the sound of a universe unfolding within his mind. That he's still reading the same book a day later is quite unusual.

Aziraphale turns a page, smiles a little at the words, and leans over to rest gently against the demon's shoulder.

With Aziraphale close like this, Crowley's chest feels warm and full. He can't quash it, so it doesn't seem to be strictly biological; it doesn't make sense, and he doesn't understand why it's happening.

"Same book?" he asks, desperate for a distraction.

"Poetry," Aziraphale says vaguely. He's always vague when he's reading. "You wouldn't like it."

"Try me," the demon says, deliberately argumentative even though he knows Aziraphale is probably right. He's never really understood poetry; as far as he's concerned, it's better to just say what you mean.

"Alright, then," Aziraphale says, finally looking up. "If you're sure."

"They're words, not weapons," Crowley says dismissively.

"Words have begun _and_ ended wars, as you well know," the angel scolds gently. "Besides, you didn't like it yesterday."

Aziraphale turns to face him while Crowley is still forming a reply; one knee bends up as he twists his hips, drawing his leg up onto the couch, before tucking that ankle under his other leg. His bent knee is now resting on Crowley's thigh, as if the angel hadn't noticed how close they were before he moved. Crowley can't say the same, and it's driving him mad.

Aziraphale clears his throat, bends a little further over the book in his lap, then reads aloud:

_"All night I stretched my arms across him,_[4]  
_rivers of blood, the dark woods,_  
_singing with all my skin and bone:_  
_'Please keep him safe.'"_

Aziraphale's voice is soft, almost reverent as he recites the words, and Crowley feels his mouth go dry. This is definitely not turning out to be the distraction he'd hoped for.

_'"Let him lay his head on my chest_  
_and we will be like sailors,_  
_swimming in the sound of it,_  
_dashed to pieces.'_  
_Makes a cathedral,_  
_him pressing against me,_  
_his lips at my neck,_  
_and yes, I do believe_  
_his mouth is heaven,_  
_his kisses falling over me like stars."_

Aziraphale's hair is very close to Crowley's nose; it smells a bit like almond and ginger. When combined with the cologne[5] the angel wears—ambrette, smoky vanilla, and soft French chamomile—it's a heady combination.

"'ss so dramatic," Crowley says, trying not to inhale too deeply. He doesn't quite manage to quash the hiss, and hopes the angel doesn't notice.

"Are you alright, dear?" Aziraphale asks. "You've gone a bit pink."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Crowley insists, and stands up. With his thigh no longer there as support, Aziraphale's knee falls to rest against the couch cushion instead; the angel doesn't seem to notice. "I'm going out. Dinner later?"

"Yes, alright," Aziraphale says, already disappearing back into the book. "You choose the place this time."

Crowley has no idea why this all suddenly feels so dangerous, but he gives in to the urge to flee. His urges have never steered him wrong before, and he's certainly not going to start ignoring them now.

*****

They're on the angel's couch again, enjoying being quite drunk after a lovely night out, when Aziraphale reaches across the narrow space between them and takes Crowley's hands in his.

"What?" Crowley asks.

"Your hands," Aziraphale says seriously, stroking his thumbs over the backs of them, "are lonely."

"What?" Crowley repeats, confused.

"Your _hands_ ," Aziraphale insists. His fingers haven't stopped moving over Crowley's skin; it's very distracting. "Don't you see?"

"Not in the slightest," Crowley says, squinting at him.

"Don't narrow your eyes at me," Aziraphale says, then frowns. "It's your eyes, too."

"Two eyes, yeah," Crowley nods.

"You're like the house," Aziraphale says sadly. "The one with the windows."

"Can't have a house without windows," Crowley says, slightly desperately. Aziraphale's hands are warm and soft around his own, with nails like white moons. "It'd be more like... like a bunker. Underground. Total rubbish."

"No," Aziraphale says, sounding exasperated. "The house... Oh, how did it go. Um," he blinks into space for a moment, then recites:

_"I wait for you like a lonely house_[6]  
_'til you see me again and live in me_  
_'til then, my windows ache."_

"What's a window ache feel like?" Crowley says, trying to ignore the frisson of heat curling in his belly. What on Earth is his body _doing_ lately? Holding hands isn't supposed to feel like this.

"It's so sad," Aziraphale says softly. "Don't be the house, Crowley."

"I'll try," Crowley agrees, totally lost.

The angel lets go of one of his hands, starting to hum absently[7] as he wraps one of Crowley's loose curls around a finger. The demon's hair is getting long again; a miracle trim never ends up getting it quite right, and he keeps forgetting to go get it cut.

Crowley eventually falls asleep on Aziraphale's shoulder, lulled into sleep by the angel's voice and fingers as they gently stroke through his hair.

In the morning, he wakes up on the couch alone and with a sore neck, which he instantly corrects; at least he still has control over _that_.

Aziraphale has left him a note—something about an appointment with another bookseller—but Crowley is having trouble focusing past the neat loops of the angel's copperplate handwriting. He can't stop remembering the way Aziraphale spoke to him last night, soft and warm and full of honest affection. He's just realised he wants more of it, and he's utterly terrified.

*****

At lunchtime, Crowley finds Aziraphale at his Thursday café and goads him into eating a truly ridiculous amount of pastries. A minor demonstration of control always makes the demon feel better, even though he's been careful to never offer anything that Aziraphale didn't already want; he needs to _tempt_ the angel, not damn him.

It's a sunny day, quite unusual for London at this time of year, and they decide to walk back through the park. Crowley offers his arm, as always, and Aziraphale takes it. They stop frequently so the angel can coo over the new growth of his favourite plants. It's ridiculous, but Crowley can't quite stop himself from smiling fondly as Aziraphale congratulates an older bush on its little flower buds. One unfurls perfect tiny white petals as the angel watches, and it visibly fills him with joy. Crowley has to look away before he says something foolish about happiness.

"Spring is coming," Aziraphale says cheerfully as he unlocks the door of the bookshop. He almost always uses a key, because he loves hearing the pins align as he turns it. "New beginnings, new growth. Isn't it exciting?"

"I saw something on the internet today I think you'll like," Crowley says, heart in his throat.

"Is it another 'mem'?" Aziraphale says, waving Crowley inside ahead of him. "You know I don't always understand them, darling."

"It's not a meme," Crowley says, exasperated. Aziraphale is a miracle; he's never even seen the word written down, but still somehow manages to say it wrong.

"A cat video?" Aziraphale asks brightly as he flicks the lock back to 'closed'. He adores cat videos. Crowley had once found him trapped in a YouTube playlist and laughed himself sick at the look of desperate elation on the angel's face; he'd been literally unable to turn it off until it finished, and YouTube's autoplay feature meant it never would.

"No, it's... Oh, sit down," Crowley says.

Aziraphale obediently moves to sit on the couch. Crowley follows behind him even as his mind races off without permission, bringing back some interesting mental images; he'd be annoyed if he weren't so intrigued. He files a few away for future revision.

"Are you alright, my dear?" Aziraphale asks. "Where's your phone?"

"Don't need it," Crowley manages to say. This is terrible; how do humans do it? "Memorised it."

"Lovely," Aziraphale sighs, and takes his hands to tug him closer. "Do go on then."

"You don't even know what it is," the demon protests halfheartedly. He's standing between the angel's knees now, and Aziraphale's thumbs are stroking gently across the backs of his hands again. Crowley wonders where he learnt it from—probably Wilde, that damnable flirt—and is instantly jealous, which is ridiculous. Wilde had obviously had a crush on Aziraphale, but he's also been dead for over a century; that makes Crowley the winner by default.

"You're so nervous; it must be beautiful," Aziraphale murmurs. "Will you read it to me?"

_"I wanted to hurt you, but the victory is that I could not stomach it..."_[8] Crowley begins, falters. He clears his throat, remembers Aziraphale's fingers stroking gently through his hair, and tries again:

_"I had a dream about you. You said 'Tell me about your books,_  
_your visions made of flesh and light' and I said_  
_'This is the Moon. This is the Sun._  
_Let me name the stars for you. Let me take you there._  
_The splash of my tongue melting you like a sugar cube...'"_

"Oh, Crowley," Aziraphale sighs happily.

_"We were in the gold room where everyone finally gets what they want,_  
_so I said 'What do you want, sweetheart?'_  
_and you said 'Kiss me.'_  
_Here I am leaving you clues._  
_I am singing now while Rome burns."_

Crowley stops again, his throat too dry to continue.

" _'We are all going forward'_ ," Aziraphale murmurs in response, leaning closer even as he tugs Crowley down. His voice is a warm, solid thing as Crowley finally lets himself fall apart in the angel's arms. " _'None of us are going back.'_ "

**********

Clicking on the arrows below will bring you back to the related footnote within the text:

> [1] Richard Siken: "[Visible World](http://genius.com/Richard-Siken-visible-world-annotated)" [↩]
> 
> [2] Bible: "[Genesis 11:1-9](http://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Genesis+11%3A1-9&version=NCV)" [↩]
> 
> [3] Edward Elgar: "Salut d'Amour, Op. 12" ([Spotify](http://open.spotify.com/track/04p5UdNclaAQCEQDhBSkmj?si=orWWodt1Rpm-oZ7QQ0rDZA) / [Youtube](http://m.youtube.com/watch?v=eQ_08MbYr4o))  
>  _Dance of the Blessed Spirits: Romantic Music for the Flute and Harp_ [↩]
> 
> [4] Richard Siken: "[Saying Your Names](http://genius.com/Richard-siken-saying-your-names-annotated)" [↩]
> 
> [5] Comme des Garçons: "[Avignon](http://www.fragrantica.com/perfume/Comme-des-Garcons/Comme-des-Garcons-Series-3-Incense-Avignon-1230.html)" [↩]
> 
> [6] Pablo Neruda: "100 Love Sonnets" [↩]
> 
> [7] Richard Marx: "Hold On To The Nights" ([Spotify](http://open.spotify.com/track/3F2YXxSOC9dPmxXdrh6mYl?si=pn3F_BQ3Ryeib_p0q4GWWg) / [Youtube](http://youtube.com/watch?v=6FNXO5yyJF0) / [Lyrics](http://genius.com/Richard-marx-hold-on-to-the-nights-lyrics)) [↩]
> 
> [8] Richard Siken: "[Snow and Dirty Rain](http://genius.com/Richard-Siken-snow-and-dirty-rain-annotated)" [↩]

**Author's Note:**

> The series title was taken from "[Snow and Dirty Rain](http://genius.com/Richard-Siken-snow-and-dirty-rain-annotated)" by Richard Siken:
> 
> _"I had to make up all the words myself._   
>  _The way they taste, the way they sound in the air..._   
>  _I made this place for you. A place for you to love me._   
>  _If this isn't a kingdom then I don't know what is..._   
>  _I was trying to describe the kingdom, but the letters_   
>  _kept smudging as I wrote them: the hunter's heart,_   
>  _the hunter's mouth, the trees and the trees and the_   
>  _space between the trees, swimming in gold."_
> 
> Go buy his book, _[Crush](https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/96259.Crush)_ ; it's wonderful poetry, and absolutely worth the money.


End file.
